Chapter Nine

Chris didn't know why he'd lied to Duckie. He did have to head into a meeting right after landing, but it wasn't one for the whole team. They were all going back to the clubhouse after the flight, and some guys had plans to work out together, some coaches were going to work with players on specific skills, but as far as Chris knew, he was the only one Marv had asked to come directly to his office.

"It'll only take a few minutes," Marv had said, his face as inscrutable as always. During a game, one of the only ways you could tell if Marv was upset in the dugout was by the way he spit out his sunflower seeds. He gave the gesture a bit more attitude after a bad call from the ump or an egregious error from one of his guys.

Chris had only been called into Marv's office twice before. Once, at the start of last season when he'd been traded to the team, and Marv had extended a welcome and explained a few things about the way he ran the clubhouse. The second time was when Chris' shoulder injury wasn't healing as quickly as they would've liked, and he'd been sent to a rehab assignment. Both times, at least he'd had some sense of what Marv wanted to talk to him about. Now, he had only vague ideas, and they were all bad.

"I want to get ahead of this heckler business," Marv said as soon as he'd sat down. Chris knew that his face could be as inscrutable as his manager's, and he hoped it wasn't betraying anything now. He was sick of hearing about it.

"It's an extra distraction," Marv said, "that we do not need. Would you agree?"

"Yes," Chris said. So much yes.

Marv gave him a cursory smile. "Good," he said. "Good."

Chris had known one outfielder a few years ago who'd gotten hit by a home run ball thrown back onto the field by an angry opposing fan. He hadn't been seriously hurt, thankfully, but the fan had gotten banned from all thirty ballparks and the whole incident had definitely been the subject of lots of talk on sports radio, ESPN, YouTube videos like that guy with the breakdowns, and on and on. Surely his incident didn't need to rise to that level. It wouldn't have if he hadn't started to cry at the worst possible moment, when the camera would be trained right at him. He wished he'd had his inscrutable face on then.

Marv picked up the phone and called someone else to join them, and from the short delay before the person arrived, it was obvious the whole thing had been prearranged. The new guy wore a team polo and had his graying hair gelled up into spikes, and he reached out to shake Chris' hand before Chris had even placed where he knew this guy from.

"Greg," he said. "Executive producer for the network. How are you doing?"

Chris knew that his answer didn't actually matter, so he just nodded. What was going on here?

"Listen," Greg said. "The good news is that the Battery is part of the national conversation now. The bad news…"

He shrugged, not needing to finish that sentence. The bad news was that it wasn't exactly for baseball.

"With Layla out, we're still working on filling content for home broadcasts, and we had one idea that we wanted to run by you."

Chris frowned. "Layla's out?"

Greg waved his hand, like that was the least of it. "Maternity leave," he said. "Or, what you call it before the baby is born. Point is, we'll be looking for someone to fill in for the rest of the season."

Chris hadn't even known Layla was pregnant, but he guessed there was no reason he should know. He generally liked Layla, but he didn't know her very well, and he wasn't one to volunteer for any interviews he didn't have to do.

It was starting to feel like that was what was happening here. He just couldn't figure out quite what the setup was yet.

"Uh-huh," he said.

"Here's the wild thing," Greg continued, his eyes lighting up. "That heckler? Turns out she's the sister of Donovan Brink, Layla's husband, who works for Guest Services. And, even wilder, turns out she actually has a background in broadcasting, studied it in college."

"So it was all a ploy to get on TV?" He wasn't sure he understood what Greg was trying to say. That sounded like a lot of coincidences all stacked up.

"No, no," Greg said, his gaze cutting over to Marv. "We have no reason to believe that. But the point is, that we think we could make something out of this. Do an All-Access pregame segment where she interviews you, where you talk a bit about what happened. Keep it light, show there's no hard feelings on either side, baseball's fun, that kind of thing."

Chris glanced at Marv, who was looking at him expectantly. They were framing it like he had a choice, but he really didn't.

"Layla said she already floated the idea," Greg said. "It would be good for the heckler, too, when you think about it. Cut down on some of the harassment she might be getting in the community, show that it's all good now."

Chris remembered the brief glimpse he'd gotten on that video of her in the bar, the hunted look on her face. He had no idea if that was the kind of thing she was facing on a daily basis, but he certainly didn't think it was right for people to make her life hell just because she'd yelled one thing at a sporting event.

If they even knew what she'd yelled, they'd probably find it funny. Now that he was out of the heat of the moment, he could admit that there was something kind of hilarious about her heckle. Who referenced Winnie the Pooh at a baseball game?

"Fine," he said. "Just tell me what you need from me, and I'll be there."

Greg pressed his hands together as if in prayer, making an obsequious half-bow gesture that irritated Chris. He stood up once Greg had left, figuring that was the end of the meeting, but Marv signaled for him to sit back down.

"Your walk-up song," he said. "Who's it by?"

Of all the questions Chris thought Marv would ever ask him, that had to be at the bottom of the list. If he tried to imagine Marv listening to music on his own time, it would be an old record of some 1960s classics or something. Etta James, the wife's favorite, he'd say.

"Glass Animals," Chris said slowly.

Marv nodded before picking up the phone at his desk and dialing a few numbers. "It's Marv," he said shortly to whoever must've picked up. "Tell the DJ to take that Glass Animals song out of the rotation. We'll get you Kepler's new walk-up song before his next at-bat. No, not tomorrow. Against McCullers."

He grunted once, some acknowledgment of something the other person had said, and then hung up.

"I'm sick of hearing that song," he said. "You're in a slump, fine. There's a lot of season left. Get focused, work on your swing, and for the love of Christ turn that dial to something else."

Chris opened his mouth to say something before he realized that a spirited defense of Glass Animals' repertoire was not in his best interests here, especially when Marv had casually dropped him out of tomorrow's lineup. "Okay," he said. "I'll find a new song."

"See that you do," Marv said, shuffling some papers on his desk in what was clearly a now I'm done with you gesture. "Or we'll pick one for you."

By the time Chris let himself into his condo later that night, he was exhausted. He'd stayed at the clubhouse almost as late as he would've if he'd had a night game, and would have to turn around and head back there first thing when he woke up.

His dad called him while he was heating up some chicken in the microwave. Chris briefly thought about ignoring the call and answering it tomorrow, but he knew he'd already put off his dad a few times and it was better just to get it over with. He put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter so he could hear while fixing his dinner.

"Hey, Dad."

"Where are you? You sound like you're in a tunnel."

"I have you on speaker. How's it going?"

"You're asking me that question? That's what I'm asking you. You catch that foul ball yesterday, you end the inning, Dodgers wouldn't have scored, your team could've stayed in it."

This was typical for calls with his father, which was one reason why he dreaded them so much. Chris happened to know that his dad kept a notepad by the phone, and would make notes of things he wanted to talk about. Not that he needed any reminders—he had a memory like a steel trap.

The play his dad referred to now hadn't been a fuckup. It hadn't been an error. But it had been a missed opportunity, and this time last year, maybe he would've made that play. He knew it wouldn't help to go into any excuses.

"I know," he said, taking the wind out of his dad's sails. "I know."

His father was silent for a few moments. Chris always wondered what would happen if he filled that silence, if he said something like, I miss Tim. Or if he asked his dad something like, Do you think about Tim, Dad?

Chris knew that his father did. As a parent, he had to. But he also knew that his dad didn't want to talk about it.

"You in the lineup tomorrow?"

"Day after."

He was saved from having to explain by the microwave timer going off, and Chris leaned into the phone to make sure his dad heard him. "That's my dinner," he said. "I should let you go."

"You eating right?"

He was eating okay—trying to get lots of protein, still making smoothies every morning like he had been for years. But he was eating alone a lot, grabbing a quick meal at the clubhouse or eating leftovers at home like tonight. He was eating to fuel his body but to give any credit beyond that would be stretching it.

"Yeah," he said. "Chicken tonight. Love you, Dad."

His dad grunted something that could've been You, too before hanging up.

Chris pulled up a stool to the kitchen island to eat his meal there, like he did most nights. He'd bought the condo fully furnished—it had just seemed like less hassle that way—and the dining room table was this behemoth plank of raw concrete. It had looked badass, and definitely fit the whole masculine modern aesthetic of the place, but he'd quickly learned that the textured material was an absolute bitch to clean. So he rarely used it, just like he rarely used the open living room that they'd told him would be perfect for entertaining, and he rarely used the balcony that they told him had the best view of Charleston Harbor.

He didn't even want to think about how rarely he'd used the master bedroom. As in, never. He'd dated here and there, but never actually brought anyone back to his place.

He slid his phone closer, intending to open his music library and start scrolling through, trying to find a new walk-up song. But instead he opened his text messages, staring down at the last message from Duckie. I'll be around.

That couldn't be her real name—even a nickname. Who went by Duckie? It was a little weird that she wouldn't just tell him what her name was, but he'd heard horror stories about what it was like being a woman on the internet. Maybe she'd had a bad experience on a dating app or something.

Not that they were doing anything close to talking through a dating app. For all he knew, she was dating someone already. He frowned, trying to remember if she'd mentioned anything either way.

It was late, but he typed out a message anyway, just in case.

I need a new walk-up song, it said. Any suggestions?

He took a bite of his chicken, and by the time he glanced back at his phone her response had come in.

D: I take it you can't choose "The Way" or you'd be "breaking the rules."

He smiled, wiping his fingers on a napkin before picking up his phone.

C: That would be a flagrant disregard for the rules. You can't trick the universe by creating a situation in which you'd hear the song. This is why you're not even allowed to download it, lest it get shuffled onto some playlist.

D: Okay, okay. "Lest it get shuffled." Jeez, you're strict. What are the actual rules of walk-up songs? Like can they have lyrics, how long are they, etc.?

C: Typically they play only ten seconds or so, long enough for you to come up to the plate. You can tell them to cue up to any part of the song. Lyrics are fine, but games are family events so obviously nothing crude.

D: Well, there go all my suggestions.

He let out a short laugh, realizing he'd been grinning through their whole exchange so far.

D: Give me some examples of the genre. I need to know the parameters.

He thought about what most guys on the team used. Randy's was "Pa' Que la Pases Bien" by Arcángel, Beau had chosen "Heads Carolina, Tails California" as blatant pandering, and their Korean first baseman had gone back to his roots with "IDOL" by BTS. The song choice didn't have to be a big deal—lots of guys just picked something fun, something that got them pumped up. But given the way he'd been playing and the way Marv had instructed him to pick a new song, Chris was feeling a lot of pressure to make it something he'd live up to.

C: We didn't have them in high school, but in college my first walk-up song was "People of the Sun" by Rage Against the Machine.

He looked up the video for the song and dropped a link so she could take a listen.

D: Okay, hang on.

She came back a few minutes later with a new text.

D: This song is badass. It makes you want to punch stuff for sure, but, like, in a good way. Why not use it again?

He'd thought about it. It would be easier just to go back to something that had worked for him in the past. But part of him knew that it was dangerous to move backward, even for something as innocent as a song.

C: My brother Tim always wanted me to use "Eye of the Tiger."

D: A classic choice. Literally the whole point of that song is to get you pumped up.

C: We grew up near Philadelphia, so the Rocky movies were important in our house. I just could never do it. Too much hubris involved in choosing what is possibly one of the most inspirational songs in sports movie history.

D: "Get'cha Head in the Game" from High School Musical is RIGHT THERE.

She dropped a link, and he clicked to watch it, oddly mesmerized by the synchronized dance moves.

C: That one might be a little on-the-nose.

D: But it's about basketball, so no one will guess. Clever disguise.

Weirdly, he appreciated that she didn't try to say anything like, You have your head in the game! You played great yesterday! She simply accepted what he said without making a big deal about it, made a joke, and moved on.

C: What song gets you pumped up?

There was a delay in her response, while he assumed she was thinking about how to answer. He used the time to carry his dishes over to the sink, where he washed and dried them quickly before placing them back in the cabinet. He filled a glass with some ice water before picking his phone back up, reading her message while walking to his room.

D: Off the top of my head…"Roam" by The B-52's. Ever heard it? It's impossible to be in a bad mood while you listen to this song.

She'd posted a link, and he clicked to listen. He recognized the song immediately—he'd heard it a bunch of times on the radio without really registering who it was by.

You're right, he typed after the first few minutes. This song is catchy.

D: "Catchy"? No. That's too reductive. The song is pure joy in sonic form. And I don't have any rules limiting my ability to listen to it—the more the merrier, as far as I'm concerned. Be honest—did you dance while you played it?

Chris had slid into his bed, leaning back against his headboard with one knee up while he texted with her. Did he dance?

C: No. I don't dance.

D: Not even when no one's watching a la "Dance like no one is watching"?

C: No.

C: Do you?

D: When no one's watching? Sure.

There was zero reason for him to read any innuendo in that. They were talking about dancing. And yet he felt his body tighten in response to her words.

C: And what if someone is watching?

D: I mean, it helps if I have a drink in me. But I like to dance. I don't mind being watched.

They were still talking about dancing…right? Suddenly he wasn't sure. He had no idea what she looked like, so he couldn't picture her exactly, but something about the mere suggestion was enough to get him going. He thought about her hand in that picture, her graceful fingers. He thought about what those fingers could do while he watched.

Jesus.

D: I also belt it out in the shower, and I've already told you I have a terrible voice, so there ya go. Sing like no one is listening, etc.

Her mentioning being in the shower was not helping. But her tone was back to being lighthearted and joking, and he realized he must've been reading way more into what she was saying than she'd meant. He tried to think of the most deflating thing possible to get himself under control.

C: Live laugh love.

D: Exactly.

He was going to regret this, he just knew it, but he couldn't stop himself.

C: By the way, let me know if you ever wanted to come out to a game. I could get you two tickets so you could bring a friend or your significant other or whoever.

The minute it was sent, he groaned. He had absolutely zero game. If Randy were here, he would've coached him in a much slicker way to get at that information. Once, they'd been at a local bar during last season's All-Star break, and Randy had asked a woman if he could follow her, because his mother had always told him to follow his dreams. Chris had thought for sure he'd get his ass kicked with such an obvious pickup line, but then Randy turned on that charming smile. He and the woman had ended up dating for a few months after that.

It was several minutes before her response came in, during which time Chris imagined every single scenario. She did have a boyfriend and was trying to think of how to break it to him, she had a boyfriend and they were snuggling together right then and there, planning when they might want to take him up on the ticket offer, she had a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend, she didn't have either but was still incredibly weirded out by the obvious fish for information, and on and on.

But then when the new text finally popped up, it was maddeningly short on detail.

D: Thanks, I appreciate it.

Was it possible he'd actually been too slick, where she didn't know what he was really asking? He wasn't going to repeat himself. That would be too sad.

D: No boyfriend tho

He bit his lip to stop the smile from spreading across his face before realizing that no one was watching him. He could smile as wide as he wanted.